


let's free fall and see where we land

by forcynics



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/pseuds/forcynics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five important moments when Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson kissed, in five different versions of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's free fall and see where we land

 

 

**I**

They don’t make it past boot camp.

Louis feels hollow and loose as he exits the theatre, like he doesn’t really have a handle on anything, like he isn’t actually here at all. He still can’t believe it. He’d never quite dared to expect that he would go far, that he would actually make it, but when he’d gotten the nod of approval from the judges in his first audition he’d thought that maybe, just maybe, he could, after all -- and to let go of that possibility just when he had started to believe in it is the worst kind of disappointment.

He’s got his duffel bag on his shoulder and he’s slowly walking down the steps when he notices the boy sitting at the bottom, knees pulled in to his chin and curls tucked under a beanie hat. _Harry_ , he thinks, remembers a few words exchanged here and there, introductions when they bumped into each other in the toilets, both of them nervous and excited to think that they actually had a chance.

Harry didn’t make it to live shows either, Louis remembers.

“Hi there,” he calls out, clomping down the last few steps until he’s hovering awkwardly over Harry.

“Hi,” Harry replies, but he doesn’t turn around. Louis isn’t sure if Harry even recognizes who he is or if he’s just being polite, if this is his way of telling him to move on. He has two hours before he has to be at his train, though, so he sits down beside Harry, drops his bag beside him with a thump.

“You, uh, waiting for someone?” Louis asks after a minute, when the silence is getting too awkward. He’s never really done well with silence.

Harry nods half-heartedly, like he can’t really be bothered. “My mum.”

“Oh,” Louis says. “I’m off to the train in a bit,” he shares, even though Harry didn’t ask, because it feels like the proper back-and-forth.

Harry rubs at his eye, and Louis looks away, out across the lot. “Cool,” Harry says, a beat late, tired. “Where are you from?”

“Doncaster,” Louis nods slowly. And he should – this is where he should ask where Harry is from, but instead he’s blurting out “Sorry about, you know...” It’s the elephant between them.

Harry shrugs, the effort that goes into the movement betraying any air of casualness he might be attempting. He sniffs. “Yeah, uh... you too. Sorry. It’s really shit, yeah?” He lowers his legs and half-turns his head, grimacing, and Louis takes in how his eyes are red and his cheeks are red and his lashes wet and stuck together.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and goes to pat Harry’s knee but ends up curling his palm over it, just resting his hand there. Harry doesn’t say anything.

They sit in silence for god knows how long after that, and it’s just about to kill Louis – he’s going to say something stupid just for the sake of saying _something_ any moment now – when Harry pipes up.

“I just don’t wanna, like... go back _home_ now. Like that’s it, just back to school,” – he speaks slowly, takes forever to get the words all out – “Everything back to normal... everyone knowing I fucked it up, I _failed_.” Harry exhales, frustrated and loud.

Louis gnaws at his thumbnail. “I thought you’d be through for sure,” he confesses, and then feels a bit stupid, because surely that’s not going to help.

Harry swivels his entire body to face him, and it seems to take everything for him to work up to one word – “Really?” His mouth is tight, like he’s struggling to stay composed, and his eyes are watery, and shit, shit, why did Louis have to say that, it’s hard enough thinking about all the hopes he’d had for himself, let alone adding more for Harry.

“Hey... Harry,” he says, edging closer, because god, Harry looks absolutely wrecked, and Louis may not know the boy very well, but he still feels like he has to do _something_. When’s Harry’s mum getting here? Maybe she’ll be able to make Harry feel a bit better about it all.

Only it’s just them, here on the steps, here right now. It’s just Louis with Harry.

“Sorry,” Louis breathes, quiet and flushed. He’s still got his hand on Harry’s knee, and he pulls it back when he realizes, then places it on Harry’s shoulder hesitantly, trying to be comforting. He wets his too-dry lips, and at some point his eyes meet Harry’s and he just wishes he knew the _right_ thing to say, because he can’t make himself look away.

Even when he’s sad, Harry’s sort of beautiful. Louis thinks he might even be one of those people who are _more_ beautiful when they’re sad, though he wishes Harry wasn’t.

But Louis knows Harry’s sadness, right now at least. He knows the same disappointment, feels it deep and painful and tight in his chest, and in all the potential futures still hovering in his mind. Everything that he’d thought might actually be possible before he got that one, decisive _no_.

“Maybe next year.” He’s comforting himself as much as Harry, but he tries a smile for the other boy’s benefit. Loads of people come back and make it, after all. It’s not the end of the world for either of them, it’s just the end of the world for right now.

“Maybe next year,” Harry echoes, sounding pensive in that slow voice that takes him twice as long as Louis to get the three words out.

Louis’s smile does quirk at that, into something more real. “I’ll come back if you do, yeah?” he suggests, extending his pinky finger. Harry looks amused at the sight, and he makes a point of rolling his eyes as he twines his pinky with Louis’s and shakes on it, but he’s biting his lip like just maybe he’s holding own a grin of his own.

“Alright,” he says, and Louis thinks _alright it is_.

They’ve still got their pinkies curled together, and when they go to untangle them Louis’s thumb brushes over Harry’s knuckle and he sucks in a breath, and then wants to berate himself for getting like this, but – Harry’s gone still too, and he’s looking at Louis, and his gaze flicks down to Louis’s mouth for the briefest second. When Harry meets his eyes again, he’s blushing, and Louis thinks _oh_ , and _could he really?_

He’s usually an act-first-think-later type of lad, but he takes his time leaning closer to Harry, slowly in case he’s misjudged this, giving Harry a chance out. Harry doesn’t move, but he makes a small noise when Louis kisses him, like he’s surprised nonetheless, and Louis presses his mouth more firmly, and Harry kisses him back. Harry’s fingers dig into his leg, and Louis gets a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, tangles his fingers in the fringes of his curls.

When he pulls back, a second later, quickly, Louis studies Harry, suddenly nervous. Harry is staring at him, not saying anything, and Louis says “Sorry, sorry,” nonsensically, as if Harry hadn’t just kissed him back.

Harry shakes his head, bites his lip and adjusts his hat. “S’okay.”

Louis grins, albeit weakly. “Nothing like a cheer-up snog between mates, yeah?” he tries, and Hary snorts.

“At least you didn’t say _pity snog_.” There’s a challenge to his words, like maybe he’s feeling this too, this _more more more_ singing in Louis’s veins, pounding through his head.

“No,” he says slowly, shakes his head. “No, not that.”

Harry bites his lip harder, but the corners of his mouth are curving out, and he really can’t hide his grin anymore. He turns his head away, looking straight out instead, and Louis’s wondering if Harry has any idea what to make of this or if he’s just as lost as himself when Harry asks, not looking over—

“So, Louis from Doncaster, you got a number? Or do I have to wait till next year for that too?”

Louis laughs, and Harry looks at him then, and his eyes are still rimmed red but he is grinning bright as sunlight.

 

 

 

 

**II**

They win X Factor.

They can’t believe it, this is huge, fucking _huge_ , holy shit, Louis keeps babbling to himself, whooping and hollering when the others crowd onto the stage to congratulate them as they’ve just finished performing their soon-to-be-released debut single – or more like they’ve just stumbled through it dazedly, scarcely able to believe this is actually happening, they actually _won_.

This isn’t going to end – them, _One Direction_ – this isn’t the end of the road for everything they’d imagined in hushed whispers at night. It is theirs for the taking, all of it, and Louis has never felt so sure that he could have anything he wanted. _They_ can have anything they want, do anything they want. This isn’t just a pipe-dream, something that will fade away when the cameras move on and they leave the X Factor house.

It feels _real_ more than ever before, it feels like everything and the entire world is within their grasp, and it feels fucking _amazing._

It’s insane, that’s what it is, pure insanity. They’re at the centre of the stage in the middle of all the other contestants, they’re on national television live for everyone to see, and somehow Louis ends up with his arms thrown around Harry, pressing into the other boy’s back and pulling him in close as tightly as he can. He ducks his head into Harry’s neck, shouting all the half-formed, crazy exclamations he can manage, though Harry probably can’t hear any of it.

Louis lifts his head and he still can’t believe any of this. There’s celebration all around them, balloons falling from the ceiling and confetti caught in Harry’s curls. The other lads are jumping around like monkeys, everyone is shouting and applauding, and Harry is grinning and Louis knows he feels the same, just as overcome by all of this, caught in disbelief and amazement and the most ridiculous happiness they’ve ever felt in their lives.

This is the beginning, he thinks. This is where it really takes off. They are standing on the very edge of what could be so much, this is their chance, and it is exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Harry is grinning like he can’t contain it, physically cannot contain the excitement inside him, and he squishes Louis’s cheeks between his hands. Louis laughs loud, and then Harry is pressing his mouth to his, more like pressing grins together – their teeth hit at first, almost painful – but Harry is kissing him right there on stage, frantic like he can’t help himself and god, Louis knows that feeling too.

Louis laughs again, a giggle this time that gets caught between them, caught in Harry’s throat. And the thing is, they could play this off as a joke too, a joke like all the others, the two of them swept away in the excitement of everything, but Harry—when they pull away, inches away, Harry has a secret little quirk to his smile, in the way his lips are pulled back and there’s a flash of his teeth, and his eyes are painfully open and honest, and it twists at Louis’s heart, makes him hope that the cameras can’t quite pick this up, the look on Harry’s face. Let that be something just for the two them, he wants to beg.

 _“Louis,”_ Harry whispers, and his fingers are shaking, trembling on Louis’s skin. Just a name, just his name, and Harry says it like _I can’t believe this_ , like _this is crazy_ , like _how did we even get here_ , and Louis thinks _I know_.

Harry is a bundle of giddy energy and too much brightness, like starlight shines under his skin and in his eyes, painful to watch and painful to hold, but this is a moment of pure excess if there ever was one, and Louis cannot tear his eyes or let go, only keeps his eyes locked with Harry and clings even tighter.

And it makes him think _you know, I think I love you, Haz_ , but he doesn’t say it there, won’t chance that being turned into something public too. He will wait instead until they are alone to whisper it in Harry’s ear, and Harry’s entire face will light up, like they’ve just won all over again.

Right now, Louis just keeps grinning, keeps his fingers curled tight in Harry’s blazer and this is it, this is the pinnacle of absolutely everything, and _they are on top of the fucking world_.

He never wants to fall.

 

 

 

 

**III**

They become successful beyond their wildest dreams.

(Harry and Louis become a secret.)

They are making it in America more than any of them had ever imagined they could. There are crowds of screaming girls that leave them deaf, there are fans queuing up for hours and hours to catch a glimpse of them, they’re played on radio stations across the continent, everyone wants to interview them, and they are praised far and wide as the newest Phenomenon.

They perform on _The Today Show_ in New York City, and people seem to think that they must be used to this, this kind of attention and fame, but they’re not at all. Louis doesn’t think he will ever be used to this, because this just isn’t the kind of thing that actually happens to you, ever, except that it _is_ happening, and it’s sweeping them up.

Sometimes he thinks that Harry’s taken to it more naturally, but the other boy is just as giddy and overwhelmed by it all when they sneak off at night in search of a few spare moments to themselves to escape the craziness. They duck out the back of their hotel and down a side-alley, and Louis tries to remember when was the last time they went anywhere without an entourage of security guards. This is stupid, he knows, this is asking for trouble, but he just wants to feel normal again for one minute – the normal boy he used to be who could walk down the street without paparazzi and screaming surrounding him.

And it’s the middle of the night, just Harry and him in a secret corner of New York City.

He tugs Harry’s wrist, pulls him close as he backs up against the brick wall. Harry’s gaze darts around nervously, and it makes Louis’s stomach sink. He is so, so, so grateful that they’ve become as successful as they have, but sometimes he hates it, hates what it _means_ – Harry so cautious, so suspicious, so many things to _worry_ about.

“Hey,” he says, and he just wants to kiss his boyfriend in the dark of night in the city that never sleeps, so he does, pulls Harry closer with another tug and kisses the corner of his mouth, soft and gentle until Harry turns his head to kiss him proper, his breath escaping him in a sigh.

Harry’s hands are at his waist, edging him back into the wall, and Louis loses himself in this, in wishing they could actually do this any day, anywhere, in daylight instead of secret, walking down the sidewalk like any other couple—

and there’s a bright flash that makes him see white behind his eyelids, makes him open his eyes sudden and scared and startled, and Harry’s pulling away, _“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,”_ under his breath, and he sounds terrified.

The flash is still blinding, more than one, going off and off and off, and they’re just down the alley, streaming in around the corner. One guy calls out “Pap of the year!” mockingly, sounding elated, and Louis’s stomach clenches with fear and _no, no, this is not happening._

He grabs Harry, pulls him along back into the building quickly, slams the back door shut and collapses against it. He is shaking, trembling from head to toe, and Harry is no better, he can’t even meet Louis’s eyes, he’s just shaking his head.

“They saw us, they saw us, they saw—” it’s a chant, furious under his breath, cut off with a sharp inhale. “They’re going to kill us, _fuck_ , this is going— _everyone_ is going to—” and Harry can’t even say it, the words get trapped in his throat, stuck behind his teeth, and he presses his lips shut, breathing heavy to calm himself down.

Louis tries to reach out, “Hey, hey, maybe we can— maybe they won’t— maybe we can pay them off,” he tries to suggest, stammering over the words, running a hand through his hair and clearly not believing anything he’s saying, letting fear swallow his words.

"Maybe it's okay," Harry says slowly, quietly, but Louis can't respond to that, doesn't know how to say _no, it's not_ without hurting Harry. He's just not ready, but this is huge, they are huge, and this is going to be everywhere—

And it is. It makes the covers of tabloids, ends up in every corner of the Internet, and suddenly everyone is talking about them for reasons that have nothing to do with being the next Beatles.

If Louis thought there was a spotlight on them before, it’s nothing compared to now. He feels sick, the secret they spent so long keeping now splashed out on display for the world. Speculation abounds, everyone so hungry for gossip, so eager to pick them apart. He starts to pull away, almost without realizing, like if he doesn’t stand next to Harry, if he doesn’t talk to Harry, then maybe people will somehow think it was all just a mistake, but he catches the accusation in Harry's eyes and this – this is what kills Louis the most.

There are requests for interviews, everyone clambering for exclusives, but their management shuts them down. They’re still trying to get their shit together, but supposed quotes surface all over the place. Every single tabloid or online magazine is abundant with fake information from inside “sources”, and Louis promises the other boys he won’t read them but he does anyway at night, and clenches his fists at all the stupid lies, bites his lip until it bleeds.

Surely it would be better to just tell the truth, he thinks. And in a moment of blind, foolish anger – this is going to piss off everyone, he knows that, but he has to say something – he texts Scott Mills from Radio One over in England, tells him _here’s your story, you can go and tell them: we’re in love, we’re together, and i don’t care what anyone thinks. you can quote me on that._

 _Are you sure?_ Scott texts backs, and Louis types into his phone _never been more sure_ with shaking fingers. ‘Fuck them, fuck everyone,’ he almost adds, but decides at the last second that he’s going to get in enough shit about this, better not add expletives to the list of things he can be yelled at about.

“You didn't have to do that,” Harry says, when he reads about the broadcast the next day.

Louis swallows, and just says “Come on, let’s go”, and they walk out of their hotel onto the streets of New York City.

They hold hands and they don’t let go.

 

 

 

 

**IV**

They perform at the Brits the same night they win Album of the Year.

It’s the third album they’ve released, and it doesn’t feel any less crazy to be walking onstage for such an accolade than it did the first time they’d had an award pressed into their hands while the nation watched – it’s that feeling of _how is this actually my life?_ and Louis doesn’t think it will ever completely go away. He hopes it doesn’t.

“I love you guys, god, I love you,” he babbles into the microphone when they win, speaking to the boys, speaking to the fans, to everyone. He just – loves. Is full of love. He meets Harry’s eyes, shares a smile with him as Liam goes on to thank everyone who’s gotten them to this incredible point in their lives, and Louis just stands there, too full of love to feel anything else, drowning in it, choking on it, burning in it, and he is resplendent, they all are, and _Harry_.

He is drowning, choking, burning in Harry too.

They perform their newest single, the latest to rocket up charts all around the world, and energy is thrumming under Louis’s skin, pounding; he feels like he’s on drugs, kicked into the highest gear, and he knows he’s not the only one. They’re all overwhelmed. He meets Harry’s eyes more than once, quick grins exchanged between them that they couldn’t even help if they wanted to, because _wow_.

Louis doesn’t think it could ever get better than this, and that thought makes him want to stop, right now, right there, and draw it out as much as he can. He feels like the song is almost over when they’ve barely begun. They are hurtling forwards too fast, through everything; this is all going to end eventually, and it terrifies him.

Harry takes centre stage when they get to his solo, and there’s a peculiar quiet that’s descended around the entire venue. It’s just Harry with his microphone, his voice rolling over the lyrics, sending them out to wash over the audience. His head is tipped back and Louis cannot tear his eyes away. Harry has never sounded so amazing, he thinks, or maybe it’s the adrenaline, but it’s well-suited to this moment regardless.

Millions of people are watching them, watching Harry, sharing Harry, loving Harry, and Louis feels heat in his chest, bursting hot, almost painful, like he cannot contain it, like what they are is too large to fit inside him. It’s not that his love for Harry doesn’t fit, because he reckons that would be perfectly heart-sized, if he’s being sappy about it, but maybe it’s simply that Harry himself is too large, too large for one person to love – but they have all the world for that.

And Louis will share Harry with the world, easily, with every person who wants a part of Harry as long as there as there one piece left for him. Any part of Harry has always been enough, even when it shouldn’t be. Louis has long accepted that.

Harry deserves to be loved by the whole world, if anyone does, Louis thinks. That seems right, whereas it still feels surreal to imagine that the whole world could love Louis Tomlinson from Doncaster – he is just one person, and he is not large like Harry. There is not enough him for that.

But here they are, and this too is more than he can believe.

Louis doesn’t like to ever think that they’ve _made it_ – none of them do, they’re always looking on the horizon, planning bigger steps and even bigger goals – but this, god, this feels like maybe they’ve actually fucking _made it_.

They all join in at the refrain, voices soaring as Harry drops back between Liam and Louis. He reaches out, almost unconsciously, blindly, still looking straight ahead into the audience, but Louis finds his hand and squeezes it tightly. His heart is exploding inside his chest; it is all too much and he could never get enough.

All around them is bright light and beyond that a sweeping darkness, and Louis hopes to God that he will never get over how much he loves this, loves the very basics of _singing_. He clings to the microphone with both hands when it is his solo, eyes closed and an awareness of Harry to his left pulsing behind his lids, vivid like red. He does not think about the millions of people watching, he does not think of them except to know the secret they don’t – that while he is pouring his heart into the lyrics here onstage he is singing for the boy beside him.

When they finish, they stumble backstage and it’s hitting them full in the chest, the insanity of it; Louis still feels high, hasn’t crashed down yet. He grabs Harry’s wrist, clasps his other hand around the back of Harry’s neck, and they both just – _breathe_ – try to get control of themselves even though it’s impossible. Harry is grinning like a madman, and Louis probably looks the same. His breath stutters in his throat when Harry kisses him, curling his fingers tight around Louis’s lapel. Harry tastes like champagne and mint, and the kiss is short and sweet. They break off to breathe, ragged and in synch, still grinning, still riding the excitement.

He doesn’t know what it means; it has been a long time since he’s known what Harry means in anything he does. But he will take it, even if Harry will never be his, only in pieces. He will take this piece of Harry, this moment that is not the whole world but them, only.

Louis licks the taste of champagne off his lips and dips his head down, buries his face in Harry’s neck and tries to catch his breath, and he whispers into Harry’s skin _“I love you, I love you, I love you,”_ like it’s any secret at all.

 

 

 

 

**V**

The band splits up.

It happens nine years and six albums after they were put together on X Factor, bright-eyed boys with no idea of what lay in store for them.

They say it’s all amicable, they say their interests don’t lie in the same paths anymore, they say some of them just want to retire, they say they want to end on a good note, they say they’ll always be friends, and they don’t go public about any of the tension that slowly started to rip them apart, the tension they all hated but couldn’t get rid of. It’s the sort of tension before the actual storm, Louis always thought, the precursor to things getting really ugly – and none of them wanted that.

Their fifth album underwhelmed, and they never followed it up with anything except a _Greatest Hits,_ all the tracks taken from albums one to four. There were too many arguments, claims of solos not distributed well, and the fact that they all genuinely loved each other could only keep the frustration down for so long. They were tired after so many years, and it was time to move on. Louis repeats it to himself over and over, like the simplicity makes it easier.

They were brothers, they were best friends, but they were individuals beneath it and that was suppressed too often, at too much of a cost. They needed to live their own lives, and now they will.

They still love each other. They say this over and over, and it is debated in many a magazine.

Fans cry all around the world, they are written about in papers, a sort of disbelief felt by everyone, and Louis isn’t immune to that. He sits in his room with his laptop and browses through galleries of photos from their days on X Factor, Harry at sixteen with his curls and his beanie hats and his dimples and that cheekiness that captured everyone’s hearts – Louis’s most of all.

He looks over photos of the band, all of them, so young: Liam with the straight hair he’d spend an hour on every morning, Niall with his teeth funny before he got them fixed, Zayn with the broody stares Louis used to accuse him of practicing in the mirror. He flicks through photoshoots in brightly coloured clothing, all of them slung over each other, silly grins and limbs flung everywhere – you couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the others began, and that’s just who they were.

They all bled into each other from the very beginning, and stitched themselves together like they could always stick that way, which only makes it worse now that they’re ripping those stitches apart.

And it’s silly, almost – or it would be if it wasn’t so painful – because no one could really expect a boy band to last _forever_ , but it had felt like they might, like _they_ could always be the same, them five. They would keep each other grounded, they promised, fame wouldn’t affect them, fame wouldn’t ruin them, only now here they are. There is no more _One Direction_ , and while they’re smiling for the cameras and all the press they don’t sling their arms over each other’s shoulders like they once would.

They will live in separate corners of the world and they won’t live in every minute of each other’s lives like they once did, but – maybe that is just the natural course of things, maybe that is _growing up_ for them, finding a way to stand on their own two feet and doing so apart from each other.

And in five years, ten years, sure, they will all meet up for someone’s birthday or an anniversary, and the world will celebrate and they will try to feel the same as they used to, except they won’t, Louis thinks, Louis knows, they won’t feel _that_ ever again.

He is looking back at the past in pictures and he feels like he’s thumbing through a high school yearbook, like he’s some wash-up who sits in their room and reflects on the good old days and knows _that was the best time of my life_. It’s a depressing thought to have at twenty-seven, when so much of his life is supposed to stretch ahead of him still.

But – there’s a “Hey” in the doorway, Harry poking his head inside their room, biting his lip. “What are you doing?” he asks like he doesn’t know, and Louis just closes the laptop and doesn’t answer.

Harry comes to sit on the bed beside him, hands tucked in his pockets, and he’s still worrying his lip. There’s a crease in his forehead, deep with concern – his face has more lines than it did when he was sixteen, and Louis’s does too. They are older, they are not the same kids they used to be and he is reminded of that every day he looks in the mirror. He will be thirty in three years and sometimes he feels even older. Other times he feels like he hasn’t changed at all from the boy who sang in front of a panel of judges, terrified, just wanting to be told that he was good enough.

“It’s not _all_ over, you know,” Harry mumbles after a moment.

And Louis thinks _yes_ , it is the end of an era but it is not the end of the world.

“Yeah,” he agrees, quiet, fiddling with the edge of the comforter. “You’re right.” When he brings himself to look up and meet Harry’s eyes he swallows, and curls a hand over Harry’s thigh, squeezes. “God, there is _so much_ I am happy for,” he tells him, breathless and honest and starting to smile. “I mean it.”

Harry grins slow and shy, in that secretly delighted way of his, and he takes his hand out of his pocket to slot his fingers in between Louis’s.

“Yeah?” he asks, and Louis’s smile spreads wider before he leans in to kiss Harry, nodding as he does.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, their lips brushing, and Harry gets a hand around his waist, leans into him until he’s tipping back against the mattress, and Louis feels Harry’s lips stretch in smile too as he crawls over Louis, still pressing kisses to his mouth slow and easy.

Louis curls his fingers in the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt, his hand trapped between their chests, and he flattens his palm over Harry’s heart, feels the thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.

If everything else must come to an end, he decides, he will hold onto this. This must stay. It may well be the end of an era, but there are other beginnings that lie ahead, and Louis is content to be on this precipice with Harry, come what may.

 

 


End file.
